That Thing You Do (Whispering Bay Romance 1)

“It’s sad,” Roger said, seeing her reaction. “Watching something with so many memories come down. It’s like each and every brick has its own story.”

She nodded. Endings always made her feel melancholy, too. “Do you think Concerned Citizen sent me that anonymous letter with the hopes of delaying or even postponing the demolition? Maybe there was some ulterior motive for not wanting the building to come down. I mean, obviously, there’s no ghost here.”

It was depressing to think that her entire trip had been for nothing. Except, if she hadn’t been here she’d never have known Mimi and Zeke were having marital difficulties. And she and Tom wouldn’t have had their “closure.” She glanced his way once again. How could he think that after all these years they could somehow have a future together? It was ridiculous.

“You sure about that?” Roger asked.

“You were at the séance. What do you think?”

“I think ghosts come in all shapes and forms,” he said, following her gaze. “Maybe yours has some unfinished business.”

Eyes off Tom, Allie. She felt herself blush. “Oh, no, that’s definitely finished.”

“Nothing’s ever finished. Unless you want it to be.”

“Generally, I’d say that’s good advice, but in this case…” A breeze danced in from the gulf, bringing with it the warm smell of salty air. And something else. It was faint, but still enough for Allie’s nose to pick up. Lemons. No, not lemons, Jean Nate. She sighed.

“Look what I found.” Roger bent over and picked up a small bright object from the ground. “Penny for your thoughts?” He held up the shiny copper coin as if he’d found a winning lottery ticket.

“Some people would say they’re not worth picking up anymore.”

“Good thing I’m not some people.” Roger pocketed the penny. He motioned to his camera. “I think I got what I need here. You hungry?”

“Starved,” Allie admitted.

“Good. Because I make a mean omelet. How about you let this old man make you some breakfast? Maybe between the two of us we can figure out who wrote that infamous email.”

“I hope you like grocery bought coffee,” Roger yelled from the kitchen. “I don’t keep any of that fancy Star Wars stuff here.”

Although he couldn’t see her, Allie still smiled. “Regular coffee is fine.” She walked around, inspecting his home.

The living room was surprisingly modern. Leather furniture, hardwood floors, and lots of black and white photographs on the walls. Mostly landscapes, a lot of them foreign looking—pictures of snow-capped mountains and deserts, but Allie recognized a few of them as local shots. There was a picture of the gulf at sunset that took her breath away. And lots of pictures of a pretty woman with dark hair and sparkling eyes.

Was Roger offering to help her with Concerned Citizen because he missed his wife and didn’t have anything better to do? It occurred to Allie that she didn’t care what fueled his motivation. She liked Roger. Having him make her breakfast was no hardship on Allie’s part.

He came up behind her and offered her a cup of coffee, then set two plates down on the table in front of the couch.

“Did you take all these photos?” she asked, unable to tear her eyes from the images on the walls.

“Yep. With an old fashioned camera. Like the kind I used today. Remember those?”

“I do remember those. Still use one myself from time to time, too.”

“Well, how about that?” He grinned and took a sip of his coffee.

Allie stared down at her mug. “How did you know I take it black?” She actually preferred some cream in her coffee, but she’d learned over the years not to be fussy where her caffeine was concerned. She took a sip. It was strong and surprisingly good.

“No self-respecting journalist takes their coffee any other way. I should know. I used to be one myself. If you count twenty years working for Life magazine,” he said.

“You worked for Life?” She went back to studying the photos. Of course he had worked for Life. “And National Geographic, too, I bet.”

He winked at her. “Among a few others.”

Allie’s voice softened. “She was very pretty.”

He followed her gaze to a picture of a woman sitting on a large rock. She wore khakis and hiking boots and a knit cap. Her straight dark hair hung well below her shoulders and her smile was…breathtaking. Like she was the happiest woman on the planet.

“I met Janice when I was fifty. She was thirty-five and divorced. I was a confirmed bachelor but I still married her after our third date. She died last year. Cancer. We never had any kids.”